


Eighty-Five-Point-Two

by manic_intent



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Good Lord what did I just write, M/M, That fic where Tommy is a dominant omega, and Sherlock is a submissive alpha, and Tommy does seriously think that everything is really Sherlock's fault, non-standard a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been three years into null after finally fucking reaching the age of fifty, and thankfully his decades of police training compartmentalise his own personal shock instantly: the first alpha who paws at his sleeve gets punched in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighty-Five-Point-Two

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for this fic.

I.

As if to reinforce how much Lieutenant Tommy Gregson's life has been a shitstorm of late, he abruptly goes into heat. In the middle of New Scotland Yard, of all places. At his _age_. He's been three years into null after finally fucking reaching the age of fifty, and thankfully his decades of police training compartmentalise his own personal shock instantly: the first alpha who paws at his sleeve gets punched in the face.

It degenerates quickly into a scrum: Tommy can dimly hear himself snarling as he whirls and drives his elbow up into the neck of another alpha trying to reach him, then jerks back and knees the next one in the balls. He can see the beta Inspector Lestrade shouting at his men, trying futilely to keep order, but it's probably - it's probably gonna be a near thing, even if some of his officers do seem to shake out of it. The other omegas and betas are locked up in patches with other unbonded alphas, while the bonded ones can be seen quickly vacating the vicinity, and then-

A hand clamps tight over the nape of his neck, and God, that _scent_ , rich, warm, disorienting… He hesitates, long enough for the tall, gangly alpha to firmly grab his wrist and shove him forward, snapping something at Lestrade. Tommy can't focus on the words, his police training struggling with base instincts, and he feels himself being frogmarched through the cocktail of conflicting scents and down a stairwell. 

He recovers briefly after a couple of flights, growling and trying to struggle, but the alpha twists his arm behind his back and keeps shoving him forward. The alpha's saying something, or trying to, Tommy can't focus, desperate now as he tries to struggle free, then his training kicks back in, and he blinks. The unbonded alpha who's got him looks - and smells - almost perfectly composed. His face is blank, almost robotic, and although there's arousal there in the amazing scent-rich pheromones that he's giving out, it doesn't reach his eyes. 

This weirds Tommy out enough that he's quiet as he's marched firmly into the panic room at the basement of New Scotland Yard. Every modern workplace has one, just for problems like this, and Tommy stands dumbly in the centre of the padded, reinforced and heavily ventilated room when he's shoved into it. 

He's also calmed down enough by now that the white noise in his head has faded to a mere thrumming headache, an itch that's buzzing through his blood. "Who the hell are you?" he demands finally, as the alpha stays at the door. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Holmes notes, then studies him thoughtfully. "This is rather unprecedented."

"You don't fucking say," Tommy rubs a hand roughly over his face. "I'm supposed to be _null_."

"The Inspector's arranging for suppressants. If you have any allergies, now's the time to let me know."

"No. No allergies." It's getting hard to think again, and Tommy shuffles up next to one of the vents, breathes in the clean, sterilised air. "How are you this in control? The other alphas-"

"I'm… uncommon," Holmes says delicately, and steps into the panic room, closing the door. When Tommy startles, he settles in a chair at the far corner of the still far-too-small room, crossing his legs and resting his palms on his knees. "I could leave now," Holmes notes mildly, "But you know just as well how inconvenient that could be for you in the immediate future." 

Tommy scowls. Without suppressants, if _the_ alpha leaves, it's going to be a signal that he's open season, and Tommy's worked way too many panic room tragedies to know that even the best intentions - and panic rooms - don't always hold up to frantic alphas. He's pretty sure that he can take out most alphas if cornered, but he doesn't want to risk it.

"If you don't wanna fuck me," he finally grits out, shuddering even as he forces himself to say it, "Then what? You don't know me."

"I must admit," Holmes concedes, with a faint, mirthless smirk, "It was a pleasure watching you break Anderson's nose."

"Man should'a kept a firmer grip on his cock," Tommy mutters, though he does understand, sort of. This sort of chaos is why omegas who aren't trying for children are required by law to take their damn drugs. Unless they're medically certified to be old enough to be null. Which he _was_. Until… "This is your fault," Tommy says finally, pinching at the bridge of his nose. 

"The fault of biology," Holmes corrects. "Statistically, the probability of a full sync is one in ten thousand, and a full sync with a null, unknown omega, perhaps one in a million. I normally," Holmes adds, when Tommy tenses up again, "Prefer other alphas."

"Really," Tommy blinks, fascinated despite himself. He's heard of it, of course, one can't work Vice for five years without hearing of just about every known kink to Man, but he's never actually… 

"You see," Holmes continues serenely, as though Tommy hadn't spoken, "I usually prefer to be… receiving. And," he adds, as Tommy sits down abruptly on the cot, momentarily blindsided by the uncomfortable wash of gritty lust that roared through him just at the very _thought_ , "Rutting with an omega is an act that is intrinsically animalistic."

"… Okay," Tommy tries to process this. "I didn't expect that from an alpha."

"Well, take yourself for example," Holmes gestures at him, "Within the next hour, if Lestrade doesn't show up with suppressants, you're going to be out of your mind. For someone like myself who prizes cognitive function above all else, it's a process that is inherently, should I say, horrifying to observe."

Tommy opens his mouth, about to reply, when Holmes' phone beeps. Holmes unlocks his phone, and places a call, holding up a finger. After a moment, he says, clipped, "Ah, Inspector. No, the Lieutenant is quite all right. No, do we sound as though… Naturally. Did you expect anything else? Quite." Holmes hangs up. "You're in luck. The first aid kit is well stocked."

It's with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding that Tommy can only regard this information with mixed relief. The heat's getting worse. "All right." They sit in increasingly awkward silence for a while, as Tommy presses his cheek against the padded wall, and then, to occupy himself from the increasingly insistent impulse to go across the room and go on his knees before his… _the_ alpha, he talks. 

"Who _are_ you, anyway? You're clearly not a cop."

"I could be in plain clothes," Holmes notes patronisingly, and Tommy glowers at him.

"I can pick out cops when I see 'em. You're no cop, you're not a perp, and from… ugh… this fucking hurts, fucking hell… from your clothes and your accent I'm gonna guess that you're from money, probably old money, you're highly educated, but you probably ain't an expert, you'll be more dressed up if you were."

Holmes' eyebrows had risen a little. "Oh?"

Irritated, Tommy snaps, "And you know Anderson enough to dislike him. He's in forensics, so if you were an expert you'll have the look of someone in toxicology or forensic tech and you don't. You're not a lawyer or a shrink, so…" Tommy falters, when Holmes actually leans forward. "What?"

"Fascinating," Holmes is staring at him keenly. "All this from intuition?"

"Fuck you-"

"No, no, you see," Holmes interrupts earnestly, "I am, as you can tell, assisting Inspector Lestrade. I am a consulting detective. Deduction is a science to me, but what is often equally fascinating is, I admit, the unerring precision by which some members of the older police force, like yourself, often instinctively understand situations. It is an imprecise art and often a highly fallible one, particularly when wielded by those with less than impressive intellectual faculties, but you are quite accurate."

"… Sorry, what?" Tommy manages. "You're a what?"

"I consult. For example, you're from New York. That's simple enough from your accent. You're a policeman, again, obvious from your body language and the way you were originally relaxed when you first walked into the precinct. You feel like you're at home, even though a visit to a precinct is usually a confronting experience for the general public. You're ranked highly enough to be dispatched on exchange but not highly enough that your absence will be missed. Ergo, you're a lieutenant. You were at Ground Zero during the attack, but you survived. Again, obvious from your shoes-"

Tommy snorts, about to cut in, but Holmes has already added, "You were bonded years ago, but it was broken by mutual agreement and you've since patched things up with your bondmate, likely a beta, but not to the point that your relationship has recovered. You have a young child, probably a daughter. You're left handed, but you've been trying to train yourself to handle firearms ambidextrously. You've been attempting to teach yourself Mandarin, and failing, but don't be discouraged, it's a difficult language-"

"How the hell did you know all that?" Tommy demands, wary again, but there's a knock on the door that makes him freeze up. Holmes opens the hatch, has a muttered conversation with whoever it is outside, takes something, and then tosses the pack to him. Tommy hastily punches out a couple of the pills and swallows them dry. Immediately, he feels himself relax. He knows it's a placebo effect, because the pills won't kick in yet, but he can't help it.

Holmes is at the door, about to leave, and Tommy finds himself snapping, "I asked you a question, Holmes."

Holmes hesitates, shooting a keen stare at him, clearly thinking things over, then he settles back in his chair. "Deduction." 

"Explain," Tommy decides, and it's the weirdest heat of Tommy's life, even when he was in college and wilder, sitting in a panic room having an insane conversation with a perfectly put-together alpha about the 'science' of 'deduction', and at the end of it, a little reluctantly, he concedes, "You're brilliant."

"Thank you," Holmes seems pleased, and the look of it - goddamn it all - just makes Tommy wetter, fuck, his pants are probably ruined and he's going to stink of it even when he leaves. Holmes smells it, of course he does, and he goes very still, his eyes dilating, but he stays just where he is. "I think that I should leave," Holmes says finally, averting his gaze to the door. "Regrettably, I think that my self-control over my base instincts is still far too human after all."

"Don't go," Tommy finds himself saying, and to his surprise, adds, "Please," when Holmes doesn't immediately respond. This snaps that keen-eyed stare back up to him, and he shudders, squirming, Jesus _Christ_. He's been in heat before, of course, he tried it back in college when he was young and stupid, but it's never felt like this, like he was going to go out of his mind. 

"You've had two doses of ampsthernol. That's enough for you to stay lucid and defend yourself if necessary. Lestrade's posted a beta guard outside and the alphas in the immediate vicinity have been told to go home. You'll be safe."

"I know, Christ, I-" Tommy sucks in another deep breath. What _is_ he doing? Holmes doesn't go for omegas. "Sorry. I don't… normally I don't like t'be on the, uh, receiving end."

Instead of this giving Holmes the out that Tommy thinks that it has, Holmes only looks sharply at him instead, and God, this time there's lust there, finally, hard and hungry, and Tommy's out of the cot on pure instinct in a flash. With surprising speed, Holmes gets the door open and darts out, then slams it in his face. He can hear the door lock from the other side, and Tommy spends the next hour creatively swearing at Holmes until the full effect of the drugs kick in, and then he just feels totally disgusted with himself.

What a fan-fucking- _tastic_ first day on exchange.

1.0.

Sherlock steers clear of the Yard until Lestrade calls him with work, and even then he tries to stick to crime scenes until he absolutely, really has to go in to the precinct to observe the interrogation of the suspected Triple J murderer.

Meditation, yoga, running three miles and calling in a specialised escort hadn't really served to calm his mind after the Incident, and Sherlock's dreading heading back into the Yard even though he knows that logically, Gregson's definitely off his heat by now and if the Lieutenant's even as remotely intelligent as he seems to be, he'll be on suppressants. The literature on the internet isn't very precise about the effects of full sync on a null omega taking suppressants, but it's physiologically impossible for Gregson to go back into heat so soon, anyway. 

Gregson isn't around, although Sherlock is a little dismayed to realize that he can pick out Gregson's scent under the confusing welter of scents that usually forms up a police precinct. He's off-heat, at least, and that's comforting. It's unsettling how close Sherlock had come to losing control, and a mean aspect of him blames Gregson a little for that. If only Gregson hadn't let slip that last tantalising tidbit of information… 

The suspect's interrogation puts the problem of Gregson briefly out of mind, and Sherlock strides out of observation, about to inform Lestrade that he's wasting his time and should really be looking for someone with blunted yellow fingernails, when he catches the tail end of Anderson talking nasally through his broken nose. 

"… yeah, Carl told me that the American omega wasn't touched. Don't know if it's just because a freak's a freak or because a null omega's too old to get anyone's cock stiff, heat or not-"

He usually automatically tunes out Anderson, but Sherlock's twitchy today, and, well. Sherlock doesn't register crossing the distance to Anderson, but he does remember, with visceral satisfaction, decking him with a precise left hook. Through the corner of his eyes he can see Donovan erupting from her desk, but he's bending methodically, raising his fist- 

-and Gregson catches his wrist tightly, jerking him back. The Lieutenant keeps moving, stepping past to clench a fist in Anderson's collar, and drags him bodily up to his feet, and even as Sherlock's mouth goes a little dry at this blithe show of strength, Gregson's growling. "You. You wanna repeat what you just said to my face?" 

Anderson's smile is a horrible little grimace, but he says nothing, and after a moment, Gregson lets him go. Then he jabs Sherlock in the chest with his finger. "And you. Maybe you consult for the Inspector, but you're still a guest here. Remember that." 

Just as viscerally, Sherlock feels a bone-deep pulse of lust that burns the breath itself from his lungs, and he sees Gregson freeze up, clench his fists, then keep on walking. Sherlock exhales belatedly in relief, with a sidelong glance at Anderson, but Anderson's still frozen, rubbing his jaw, not looking at anyone. It takes a few slow breaths to take control of himself, and he catches up with Gregson just in time to see the Lieutenant talking to an annoyed-looking Lestrade. 

"… no, nothing. I'm _sayin'_." Gregson glances behind Lestrade, to the suspect behind it, and his stance gets a little less combative. "Sorry to interrupt." 

Lestrade belatedly closes the door. "Triple J suspect," he says, by way of a policeman's peace offering, and Sherlock opens his mouth, but to his pleasant surprise, Gregson beats him to it.

"Saw the reports. Triple J murderer's a heavy smoker, ain't it, from the stubs always at the crime scene? That ain't your man, Inspector, with all due respect, you shouldn't waste time trying to match his DNA. His nails are clean." 

"Could be an accomplice," Lestrade mutters, though he does deflate a little. "Did you need something, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah, I-" Gregson hesitates when he realizes that Sherlock has walked up to them. "What?" Gregson snaps, tense and hostile.

"I was going to talk to the Inspector about the suspect," Sherlock finds himself saying as calmly as he can, even as he starts to feel dizzy again, and Gregson snorts, even as Lestrade sighs. 

"My office, Lieutenant. Holmes, wrong suspect, so, uh, call me when you have something." 

Sherlock spends the rest of the day doing absolutely no work whatsoever. Bodily demands are _so_ inconvenient. Annoyed, he throws himself into work, doesn't sleep, wires himself high on coffee, and manages to track down the killer within the next day. The killer breaks down in the precinct under relentless questioning, and on his way out, satisfied, Sherlock notices Gregson watching him thoughtfully from the small huddle of chatting betas and omegas. He's a little gratified at first, then he feels annoyed at feeling gratified. Sherlock really should be above Neanderthal attempts at courtship displays, or whatever this annoyingly _alpha_ behavior is. 

He does, maybe, go home and masturbate to the thought of Gregson holding him against a wall with that easy strength of his, and it doesn't help his mood, afterwards. So Sherlock sleeps and eats the bare minimum and worms his way back to New Scotland Yard, wheedles Lestrade into passing him a few cold cases, and sits more or less happily in the Evidence room with them until he's shaken awake in the morning by grumbling janitorial staff. 

Mulishly, Sherlock solves one out of the three files, dumps the solution in dramatic rapid fire into Lestrade's lap just as the poor Inspector's in the middle of his first cup of coffee, and gets chased out of the Yard for his trouble, something about 'pheromones' and 'fuckin' Alpha genes'. Some people really have no sense of gratitude. 

Sherlock steals the files anyway, and torments Lestrade by pestering him and/or his team over the next few days with texts for more details, until one day, while sitting in his little place in Baker Street with the various remnants of take out boxes around him, Sherlock looks up to Gregson leaning on the doorframe leading into the cramped living room.

"Hey," Gregson starts mildly. His arms are folded across his chest, but as far as Sherlock can tell, it's the only sign that the Lieutenant's possibly feeling defensive. He even _smells_ relaxed, which helps: Sherlock can't help but feel slightly soothed in turn. They're still fully synced, it seems. It should be a disturbing thought, but it isn't. 

Sherlock knows that he should be saying something nominally polite in return, but what he really does say is, "That corner of Oxford Street gets muddy when it rains, and I hear that the Rob Roy is a good Scottish pub." 

There's silence for a moment, then Gregson snorts and scratches at his chin. "Y'know, if you ever get tired of London, we could use you over in New York."

"I'll be hobbled in another city. I have no contacts in New York, nor do I know the city." Sherlock finds that he's pleased again though, at the flattery, implied as it is.

"You'll be welcome to all the cold cases in New York that you want," Gregson offers, though he looks amused even as he says this. 

"Generous as the offer is, I'm afraid that I must decline. Did you have something that you wished to discuss, Lieutenant?"

"All right, look." The Lieutenant's calm facade cracks a little, and he shifts on his feet. "D'you want me to ask for a transfer back to New York?"

"… Why would I want that?" Sherlock asks, after puzzling over the question for a moment. "Such a request would hardly be of any benefit to your career, and you're quite close to being promoted."

"I'm not gonna ask you how you knew that," Gregson drawls, though he sets his jaw. "The Inspector says that you haven't been yourself. And that's probably because of me. You do a lot of good here. Solve a lot of cases. Hell, I still have no idea how you caught the Triple J murderer, and I read your statement. If I'm putting you off your game-"

"Actually," Sherlock interrupts, "I find your presence… interesting. I haven't had my cognitive control so tested since I was a teenager. It's a stimulating experience." 

The Lieutenant's eyebrows rise. "Stimulating, huh?" he repeats, with a smirk, and yes, there's finally a spark there, sexual innuendo, forward tension, and they end up crowded in Sherlock's bedroom, clothes haphazardly discarded, Gregson's gorgeous natural strength holding him up against the wall as he curses and gasps and fucks him against the peeling wallpaper, using his own slick for lubricant. It's filthy and exhilarating, scent and sounds and Gregson's intense ice-blue stare that seems to look through him and within him; he tells himself that it's biology, that it's mere physical gratification, but at the end he feels a warm satiation curled on the bed that's… unusual, to say the least. 

"'aven't done that with an alpha before," Gregson's curled against his back, sleepy and sticky. Sherlock briefly considers pulling away to get cleaned up, but to his own personal surprise, he stays put when a big hand closes over his hip. 

"You clearly haven't met many interesting alphas then," Sherlock retorts, and is still awake and alert enough to catch Gregson's mumbled, "I hadn't met _you_ ," before the Lieutenant's voice melts into a light snore. 

Well.

Cautiously, Sherlock turns around, wriggling until he's facing Gregson, watches the omega sleep for a while, then he reaches over and presses his fingers over the bonding glands at the nape of Gregson's neck. He can still feel the faint ridges of an old scar, which annoys him at a nascent level, but when Gregson stirs in his sleep, Sherlock jerks his fingers away.

II.

Tommy would regret giving in to his instincts, except that he _has_ missed waking up to someone warm, and he _has_ missed the simple intimacy of scenting rituals. Sherlock noses against his neck, still half asleep, before he abruptly bolts awake and jerks back, shooting Tommy a rabbity look of surprise before scrambling off to wherever the bathroom is. Tommy rubs his eyes and groans, burying his face back in the pillows. The bed smells of Sherlock, of _alpha_ , and now a little of him, and it's nice to curl up in the warm spot for a few minutes more.

He's a little wet and growing stiff by the time Sherlock returns, which is embarrassing, but even as Tommy tries to will down his morning wood Sherlock sniffs at the air, frowns, and climbs back onto the bed, ducking under the blanket. Tommy manages a slurred, "Wha-" before his voice breaks into a yelp; long fingers have spread his legs, and he feels a warm tongue lick up between his asscheeks, over his leaking hole and up, further, and, "Jesus fuck!" 

He feels Sherlock laugh in a muffled rumble as his cock is swallowed down, God, Sherlock has no gag reflex, and Tommy's head snaps back against the pillow with an open-mouthed groan. Not even Sarah's ever done this for him before. Enlightened as society's getting, in bed, omegas usually do the servicing, not the other way round, even with a beta mate. What Sherlock's doing now - fuck, what he let Tommy do to him last night - is kinky as all hell, and Tommy barely manages to keep his hips from jerking up blindly into the wet suction. 

It's over shamefully quickly, and Tommy drags a smirking Sherlock up to kiss him, licking into his mouth despite the sour taste, groping downwards. Just like last night, he can feel the hard curve of Sherlock's knot, and as he squeezes it roughly, probably on the edge of pain, Sherlock muffles a whimper against him and comes in thick spurts against his thigh. 

Fuck.

He's never been this strung out on anyone before. Full sync is a goddamned _bitch_ even without the awkwardly unexpected heats. 

Sherlock watches him with his unblinkingly intense stare for a moment, propped up with his hands on either side of Tommy's hips, and for a moment Tommy wonders if he said that out loud. 

"Actually, I feel that you should transfer," Sherlock says, and even as Tommy's heart feels like it just stopped, adds, "To New Scotland Yard. Lestrade's team is hopeless, and his right hand man - or woman, I should say - is almost as utterly useless as her illicit boyfriend."

It takes Tommy a short moment to piece up the missing links. "Sergeant Donovan is sleeping with Anderson?"

"See," Sherlock says earnestly. "London could do with a better breed of policeman."

"Thanks but no thanks," Tommy says dryly. "I'm needed back home. And like you said, it's only gonna be a matter of time before I make Captain."

Sherlock pouts - actually pouts - which deserves a sardonic kiss, that then ends up as some sort of semi-wrestling match on the bed, and if Tommy was maybe twenty years younger he probably would have been ready to go again, just from the way Sherlock pants and whines under him. As it is, he catches sight of his watch, grimaces, cleans up peremptorily, and shows up at the Yard late and feeling belligerent. 

Nobody says anything, not even Lestrade, and Tommy spends the rest of the day impatiently listening to counter-terrorism procedures away from Lestrade's squad - and Sherlock.

The Rob Roy is a good pub, but drunk alphas are incredibly irritating the world over. Before he accidentally starts a brawl by forcibly introducing the grabby alpha's face to the bar counter, however, Sherlock magically shows up, and then Tommy isn't sure if he's more annoyed at the unnecessary rescue or by the fact that one of the alphas managed to pinch his ass on his way out. 

They ruin the sheets at his hotel, and honestly, Tommy's far too old to be discovering new kinks, let alone something as insane as submissive, younger, lanky alphas begging to be put through the mattress. He seriously thinks that Sherlock has managed to majorly fuck with his sexuality on short notice, but when he tells Sherlock this, somewhat jokingly, he gets kissed until his lips are bitten and swollen. 

"You should stay in London then," Sherlock tells him, when Tommy's still catching his breath. "I'll put in a word for you at the Yard."

"Don't you dare," Tommy glares at him, and it's funny - and okay, kinda hot - how Sherlock merely stiffens and looks away with a stuttered breath. "How about you come to New York?" he asks instead, challengingly, and instead of answering, Sherlock settles down on the bed instead as if he hadn't heard. 

Tommy forgets that he asked, all the way until the exchange is over, and he's saying his goodbyes in the Yard. Sherlock's not around, which isn't unusual when there isn't an 'interesting case' in the works, and as such Tommy's a little surprised when Lestrade drags him into his office. 

"You're going back to New York tomorrow?" Lestrade begins by asking the obvious.

"Yeah. It's been a pleasure. Mostly," Tommy corrects, wryly. "The first day was fucked up."

Lestrade grimaces. As much as Tommy's tried to tell the Inspector many times that what happened on the first day was a freak accident and nobody's fault, the Inspector's a good man, and he took the behavior of a quarter of his squad towards a fellow law enforcement officer deeply to heart. "Yes, about, well," Lestrade sighs. "Did you ask Holmes to go with you to New York?"

Tommy blinks. "Um. Kinda. But it wasn't, uh. Why?"

"Because he informed me this morning via text that he would no longer be available to consult for the Yard," Lestrade snaps, clearly agitated. "Look. Holmes is highly eccentric and some of his methods are suspect, but," Lestrade scowls, but the curve to his mouth melts to something rueful. "I suppose I should've seen it coming. Biology, eh?"

Tommy briefly entertains the thought of punching Lestrade, but the Inspector doesn't deserve it. "I'll talk to him." 

"No, if he wants to go, he should go," Lestrade interjects quickly, but Tommy's already pulling out his phone.

Sherlock picks up on the third ring. "Ah, Lieutenant! I suppose that you're speaking with the Inspector right at this moment?"

"Yeah. What gives?"

"Were your offers of employment genuine?" 

"Well," Tommy hedges, with a glance at Lestrade, who sighs, stretching out his hand for the phone. Tommy lets himself out of the office, and tries not to grin when Anderson hastily exits the floor. Eventually, Lestrade emerges, handing the phone back to him, mouths a wry 'Good luck', and goes back into his office. "Yeah?"

"I'm in your hotel room," Sherlock says blandly, "The sheets are regrettably clean and there are still four hours and fifteen minutes to our flight." 

It takes all his self-control and self-respect not to embarrass himself publicly on his last day at the Yard by popping a schoolboy boner. "Fuck you, Holmes." He still has a last set of polite goodbyes to make and-

"Yes, I do believe that was the plan," Sherlock agrees, oh-so-casually, and Tommy grits his teeth. He'll pay Sherlock back for this. Very soon.

2.0.

Sherlock disapproves instantly of Gregson's 'digs', and moves into one of his father's untenanted residential properties, instead. He gets his things shipped over from London, buys esoteric furniture, and slouches in the still shrink-wrapped vintage armchair as Gregson complains, but ambles about ordering the workmen around until everything's neat, arranged and unpacked.

"You could move in," Sherlock tells Gregson from the armchair, and Gregson scowls at him. 

"You'll drive me nuts within the week," he shoots back. "Get off that fucking chair and unwrap your own goddamned furniture."

They christen the new sheets and the bed when Sherlock discovers that he can make Gregson, quiet, self-contained Gregson, scream the house down if he eats him out with as much tongue as humanly possible. After that, buzzed on his own satiation and the scents and tastes, he laps absently up over Gregson's back, over old bullet scars to the bonding glands, and before he knows what's happening, Sherlock's pinned on the bed, arm twisted behind his back.

"Fuck, sorry." Gregson backs off instantly, even as Sherlock's dick tries to get hard again and fails. "I didn't think, sorry."

"You'll have to teach me that move," Sherlock decides, still processing the last few seconds in his mind. "It's quite efficient."

"No, I," Gregson hesitates, rubbing up over the back of his neck as if to double check that he isn't marked.

"I would ask if I wanted to," Sherlock belatedly parses Gregson's hesitation. 

"I guess," Gregson barks out a harsh laugh. "I mean, you did close that panic room door right in my face." 

Sometimes human interaction escapes Sherlock. As he frowns, Gregson elaborates dryly, "Look, I get it, all right? You obviously haven't bonded with anyone before. Claiming's very likely to happen during a heat, and you don't wanna bond with me. That's fine."

"I don't want to bond with you?" Sherlock repeats, fascinated by this sudden development of logic on Gregson's part. To be honest, he supposes that he isn't entirely sure. He's never particularly thought about bonding before. Other that Gregson, he's never synced with any omega, not even partially.

"I was in heat," Gregson drawls slowly, tilting his head, "And you walked out." 

The Lieutenant, Sherlock finally notices, actually seems hurt. He's hidden this well - Sherlock hadn't noticed it until now. It sparks something uncomfortable within him, prods at his mind, and in the silence, as Sherlock considers this, Gregson sighs. "I don't hold it against you, all right? Shouldn't have brought it up."

Sherlock tries another angle. "Do _you_ want to bond with _me_?" His skepticism probably shows - Gregson manages a lopsided smirk.

"Some days I do feel like wringing your neck." It's not a 'no', Sherlock notes, but he doesn't say anything, still examining the proposition from several angles. Gregson seems to have forgotten about the incident in the morning, but Sherlock knows better now. Breakfast is entirely awkward, but Gregson shows up again for dinner a few nights later, when Sherlock's still studying maps of New York.

"The Captain wants t'know if you've considered his offer," Gregson tells him, over the packets of Thai take out. 

Lestrade may be ploddingly dull at times, but he's a good man, and he had sent Gregson's Captain an emailed report containing a polite boilerplate description of Gregson's stay in the Yard - no inconvenient heats mentioned - and then a very long complaint about how Gregson had been poaching excellent consultants, after which the NYPD had extended Sherlock a formal offer.

"Certainly. I'll accept when I'm more familiar with your city." Sherlock shrugs. 

"And when's that gonna be?"

"In due time." Flippancy gets him fucked against the kitchen counter, as much as Gregson grumbles later about clean up. Sherlock's comfortably in bed by the time Gregson finishes pottering around, and he finds himself awake again as Gregson drifts off. 

The old scar seems more faded now, Sherlock thinks, as he traces it lightly, and as he draws his hand away he finds that Gregson's caught his wrist. "Tickles."

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and pretends that he was only examining scars in general. Out of a sense of curiosity, he spends the next two weeks finding all manner of excuses to touch the old bonding scar, and is somewhat entertained to see that it drives Gregson crazy. 

"Do that one more time and I will break your arm," Gregson takes to snapping, but he never does, and Sherlock knows better than to try it in public when he finally decides to consult for the NYPD. 

The work is as entertaining as London, perhaps more so due to the higher crime rate, and along the line, he picks up a tortoise and an apprentice beta ex-surgeon, both through unconventional means of adoption. Gregson's reserved with Watson at first, but then they seem to become fairly good friends, and Watson regards Gregson's usually noisy visits with wry aplomb.

"Why do you call him 'Gregson'?" she asks Sherlock once, when they're having breakfast. 

He doesn't look up from the notes that he's poring over. "Because he won't answer to 'Thomas', and I dislike the name 'Tommy', so 'Gregson' has to do."

"You really should stop messing with him, it's cruel," Watson observes, and when Sherlock frowns at her, she pointedly touches the back of her neck. 

Irritated, Sherlock asks Gregson later whether he's being cruel, and doesn't really expect the look of amusement. "I don't think that you know what that is," Gregson says finally. 

"Of course I do," Sherlock retorts, offended, and is about to recite the Oxford Dictionary definition of the word when Gregson snorts. "Besides," Sherlock states mulishly, "You never did answer my question either. About whether you wanted me to…" Sherlock trails off when Gregson frowns at him, then he adds, mildly, "And the first time I so much as touched you there you pinned me in a restraining hold on the bed."

"I said I was sorry," Gregson mutters, then he sighs. "Look. You're twelve years younger than me, and-"

"I walked out," Sherlock decides to explain, "Because I felt that you deserved that much." When Gregson stares, confused, Sherlock pokes him in the arm. "And I have no interest, as I mentioned, in the sort of sexual congress that would have ensued had I listened to my instincts."

"But-"

"And so," Sherlock barrels on, "I should clarify that since we already partake in approximately eighty-five-point-two per cent of the usual post-bonding interactions, it would not be a severe leap of logic to, as it were, 'make things official'. But you should perhaps consider carefully whether you truly wish to be bonded to _me_."

Gregson stares at him some more, than he slowly shakes his head. "How can you be so smart and still so dumb?"

"I resent that," Sherlock notes, affronted, but then he sucks in a tight breath as Gregson rolls his eyes and lies down, arching to present the back of his neck. It takes a long moment before Sherlock leans down, to graze his teeth over the old scar, then lick at it, until Gregson's squirming with impatience and biting down on a moan.

"When you're next in heat," Sherlock notes idly, with another lick, "You're going to tie me down."

"Yeah?" Gregson's voice is rough. "And why would I do that?"

"So that you could use me," Sherlock suggests, and although it's matter-of-fact as he recites what's on his mind, Gregson sucks in a shaky breath and bucks against the bed. "Any part of me." 

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, just-" Gregson chokes off into a cry when Sherlock bites down, and then he goes so still and quiet that Sherlock almost pulls away. Only instinct gets him to wait until Gregson's blooded, then he lets go, wary. Surely he hasn't-

Big fingers grope up gingerly to the fresh mark, then Gregson drawls, tellingly raw as his voice now is, "There's gonna be a long weekend in a month."

"Just so." Sherlock settles down over Gregson's back in relief, ignoring the squirming and the muttered curse. He breathes deep, nuzzling Gregson's neck, then he licks up over the scar, but instead of going still and quiet as omegas tend to, when alphas assert their claim in a gesture like this, old as time, Gregson hisses and shoves him off.

Sherlock smirks, unrepentant, but then Gregson leans close, to nip at his ear and growl, "I'll be looking forward to it," and he shivers, narrow-eyed, shifting over to scent up over the skittering pulse in Gregson's throat. It slows as he mouths experimentally at it, then Gregson lets out a soft sound, as Sherlock licks his way up to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok that has hopefully expunged all my existing ficbunnies and I can go back to my wips... D:


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